


The Fox and the Firebird

by Islanderlass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Conspiracies galore, F/M, Family Secrets, Multi, No more coffee for me thanks, Tags May Change, The Veela Mating Fic No One Asked For, The Weasleys are Competent Adults, They're all trolls, Veela Magic, Watch out for the goat, Wizarding World Bashing (Harry Potter), who are we kidding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 14:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16704121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: The day after Arthur Weasley buries his wife is the first day of the rest of Gabrielle's life. She's determined to ignore her Magic's choice of mate, even though she knows it means her fire will engulf her on her next birthday.The thing about the Weasleys, though, is that they never give up, and they never give in. The Delacours are about to discover that they're family, and family means no one gets left behind.





	The Fox and the Firebird

**Author's Note:**

> Gabrielle/Arthur is one of my crack pairings. I'm always trying to come up with ways to make my crack pairings work, and. veela mating fic is as good excuse as any, I suppose.

July 31st, 2004

 

Gabrielle Delacour held her young niece Victoire by the hand. She followed Charlie, Bill and Fleur as they walked slowly out of the Ottery St. Catchpole graveyard; Bill’s arm was around Fleur, and Fleur carried little Dominique in her arms. It might have looked to onlookers that Bill was supporting his tall, elegant wife in her time of bereavement, but Gabrielle knew that it was, in fact, the other way around. The eldest Weasley had not handled his mother’s illness and subsequent death well. None of the Weasley children had; cheerful Molly had been the heart of the clan, and her diagnosis of pancreatic cancer this past February had been a great shock to everyone.

 

Gabrielle soon stood awkwardly in front of her father and a wan Mr. Weasley. What did one say to a man whose wife had been told she had a year to live—and died not even six months later? Victoire pulled away from her and threw her arms around her grandfather’s legs. “Will Gran be at the Burrow, Pop? I want hot cocoa!”

 

Charlie looked like he’d been struck, and Bill turned to his daughter and snapped, “No. Gran will never make you hot cocoa again! We talked about this, Vicky!”

 

Victoire said, “No! You said Gran had just gone away, but she loves us, and we’re sad. She makes hot cocoa when I’m sad.” She huddled against Arthur and scowled defiantly at Bill.

 

Arthur crouched down, so that he was eye level with his four year old granddaughter. “Listen, honey, Gran can’t make you hot cocoa, but I can.” The tips of his shoes were dusty, and his black mourning robes—old fashioned, and perhaps even older than him—puddled in the dry grass. Gabrielle wanted to shake Victoire; here Arthur was clearly hurting, and all she could do was think of her stomach!

 

“I can make hot cocoa,” she blurted out. Arthur looked up at her, and his lips twitched. “I can!” She cried, stung. She knew what he was likely thinking. The Incident of the Flaming Spaghetti on The Ceiling had not been her fault (completely, anyway). So what if she was no domestic goddess like Mama, Fleur and Molly? She would rather order a spicy curry take out anyway.

 

Victoire turned to regard her with the deep suspicion of child who knows an adult is lying to them. “You can’t even boil water,” she said.

 

“Well, perhaps Dad will show her how to make hot cocoa,” said Bill with forced cheer.

 

“Tomorrow,” said Fleur firmly. “We will come over for the family luncheon, if Arthur still feels up to it.”

 

“Yes, of course, Fleur,” Arthur said, standing, and dusting his robes off. “It will be good to have you all around; it has been far too quiet since Molly’s passing, I’m afraid.”

 

“All right,” said Bill lowly. “Would you like any of us to stay tonight?”

 

Ginny piped up behind them, “I’d be happy to stay too!”

 

“No, children,” said Arthur. “Let me have this one night to myself, hm?”

 

“Very well, Arthur,” Gabrielle’s mother linked arms with her husband, “Please, let us know if you would like company. You have the address of the hotel we are staying in, oui?”

Arthur nodded, “Bovey Castle, madam. I remember.” He smiled down at little Victoire, “A real castle, love, fit for my little princess! You will so enjoy that!”

 

“Not as good as the Burrow,” she huffed.

 

“Few places can beat the Burrow,” he agreed, solemn. “I will see you all tomorrow then.”

 

The Delacours bid him farewell, and walked towards towards their rented limousine with Charlie and Bill.

 

“Your poor father, William,” said Fleur unhappily. “I do not know if we are doing the correct thing, leaving him in that house by himself.”

 

“You need to respect his wishes, ma petite,” said her mother.

 

“He was very clear on the fact that none of us were allowed to stay with him tonight in the Burrow,” said Bill. “Despite what anyone’ll have you think, he’s not a man to be crossed.”

 

“Dad’s not nearly as fragile as he seems,” said Charlie tiredly. “He’s handling this the best of all of us, you’ll see.”

 

“Your siblings do not seem to think so,” sniffed Fleur. "And George is particularly fragile."

 

“Oh, really?” A voice said from behind.

 

The turned to see George, Harry, and Teddy behind them. George wore a sweater with a large “F” on the front, and Harry and Teddy wore matching Hawaiian shirts. “Notice my prostrate self,” said George sardonically. “I’m not really here in front of you, you see, in my Weasley sweater. I’m back there, enrobed in black taffeta,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “weeping on my mother and brother’s plots. Tearing my hair, drinking cheap rot gut whisky. Oh woe, is me, I used to have a hamster tree—“

 

Gabrielle couldn’t help herself; she giggled.

 

George pointed at her, “Now see, you soppy gits,” he said to his oldest brothers, “the youngest fire bird gets it. She is a true Weasley! I’ll have to disinherit you and adopt Harry and Gabby in your place.” To Gabrielle, he said “Why, oh prettiest of all Veela, are you wearing mourning weeds? Mum asked us to all wear our favorite brightest, most offensive clothing to celebrate her passing.”

 

“Hermione Granger,” said Charlie darkly. “She transfigured everyone’s clothing to widow weeds. Dunno how Harry and you escaped, really.”

 

“Fucking bint,” said George. “We escaped because she’s not talking to us, still, you know, ever since we took up with each other and started living in sin.” He waggled his eyebrows. Harry and Teddy had moved into George’s apartment a bit over a year ago, after Andromeda’s death. Despite his insinuations, no one was really sure if he and Harry were actually dating, or just pranking the rest of the family.

 

Harry grinned, “No, she’s not talking to us since last month, when we accompanied Arthur and Molly to the coffin makers and you insisted on pretending that we had sex in the floor model.”

 

Bill said, “Oh Merlin. George!”

“What? Dad and Mum laughed!”

 

“They did,” agreed Harry, “and then they started reminiscing over where they’d conceived each and every one of you. Thought Ron’s head was going to explode.”

 

Charlie sniggered, “Ronniekins always has been a delicate flower.”

 

“And gullible to boot,” said Bill, exasperated. “Really, Mum and Dad could not have possibly conceived him in a mine shaft, an airplane toilet, the Burrow’s pond, AND the arachnid house at the London zoo. One, I will give you, but all of them? Does he not know how babies are made? Still?”

 

His brothers and Harry burst out into slightly hysterical laughter. When they had subsided, Monsieur Delacour said, “Pardon, I think we have missed something?” His wife and Gabby nodded in agreement.

 

“Papa, when one of the Weasley children annoys their parents, Molly or Arthur would ask the other ‘why did we have him?’ And then the spouse will make up some sort of absurd story about their conception.”

 

“A family joke,” said Monsieur Delacour nodding.

 

“Oui,” said Fleur, “If a bit tasteless.”

 

Gabrielle thought it was adorable. Her sister could be such a stick in the mud sometimes. They had reached the automobile; the driver held the door open, and they all climbed in. George and Harry had rented a room at the same hotel, because Harry quite enjoyed luxury hotels, having never travelled with the Dursleys as a child. The Limousine door slammed shut after her father climbed in and began to drive slowly north.

 

George shrugged, “Well, we are Weasleys, Bill’s Wilting Orchid.” He enjoyed tweaking his sister in law by calling her silly flower names. “If we’re not being tasteless, uncultured swine, we’re probably six feet under.” He rolled his eyes at Bill’s disapproving face. “C’mon, big brother, lighten up. Gin-gin, Hermione, and Percy are quite enough doom and gloom for all of us.”

 

Bill reluctantly grinned. “Fair point. Anyway, Fleur, Charlie and George are right. Gin is making it all about herself, as usual. Percy is an overdramatic ponce who, once we take him down a few notches, will get sauced and proposition Ollie Wood.”

 

“But Hermione has been chasing Percy!” Exclaimed Fleur.

 

“He hasn’t noticed,” said Bill, “He’s been talking to me about curse breaking in Egypt. Think he might actually go for it.”

 

“Good!” Said Gabrielle. “I like him, when he isn’t being a prick. Hermione would ruin him entirely.”

 

“And Ron?” Fleur asked pointedly.

 

“Ron’s always been a mummy’s boy,” said Charlie. “He really is taking this hard; I’m glad the Patil sisters were hovering over him at the funeral. Told me they’d concern themselves with his care and feeding.”

 

“That’s a weight off my back,” said Bill, relieved. He looked at Gabrielle, brow knit in puzzlement. “Why _are_ you wearing black? You and your parents and Fleur were nowhere near Hermione today. You all came straight from Bovey Castle.”

 

Gabrielle froze. What should she say? Certainly not the truth—Bill was unaware of what happened on an unbonded Veela’s 19th birthday, and she could not tell him her parents and sister had been distracted by concerns other than his mother’s death.

 

Fortunately, her mother came to her rescue. “Fleur rather took Molly’s request as a joke, m’dear, I am afraid. You know, English is her second language, and she still has such a difficult time with irony and sarcasm.”

 

“Ah. Well, honey, next time, ask for the Weasley to French Translation, for God’s sake,” Bill said.

 

Fleur flushed, and muttered, “Of course, darling.”

 

George looked at Gabrielle thoughtfully and then raised his eyebrows at Charlie, who tapped the side of his nose. Excellent. His brother would give him the dirt later, because that stunk like a load of dragon shite. Fleur’s English had always been better than she let on, and she had no trouble understanding (and retaliating)their sarcasm.

* * *

 

Gabrielle turned in her seat and stared out at the passing countryside, lost in her thoughts. If aVeela was yet unbonded on the eve of their 19th Birthday, they would wake up the next morning and discover who their magic had decided to take as a mate. It could not be someone completely unavailable, but it could be a man or woman of any age, as long as they were fertile and felt kindly towards the young Veela (or perhaps simply protective of, no one was quite sure). The Veela’s body would burn for their mate, and even develop secondary sexual characteristics (a vagina, if both were male, a penis, if both were female.) They had one year to court and win over the mate; if not, they would burst into flame and die the morn of their twentieth birthday. For this reason, young Veela were encouraged to marry young. For this reason, the elder Delacours had not even blinked when Fleur had set her cap for an English cursebreaker seven years her senior.

 

Gabrielle knew her parents had been near desperate for her to do the same, but she just wanted to be to see the world, to be herself. Since her graduation, she and her parents had spent six months in Australia, and six months in South America; they had been about to settle in an apartment in Cape Town when they’d received word from a distraught Fleur about Molly Weasley’s diagnosis.

 

_S_ ix months prior…

_Apolline stroked her youngest daughter’s hair. “I am sorry, my princess. We can make up some story if you like, and stay here—your sister will understand.”_

 

_“No, she won’t, mama.” sniffled Gabrielle. “She already thinks I am being so very selfish for not living with her in England, and not allowing her to set me up with a stupid Hogwarts boy.”_

 

_Her father sat across from them with a glass of scotch. He gestured emphatically as he said, “It is she who turned me down when I offered to bring her and William and the children along! She is the selfish one!”_

 

_Her mama replied, “Spilt milk, my love. Besides, I cannot blame her for not wishing to remind William of her own nonhuman blood.”_

 

_He slammed his glass down on the table. “Tell me, what does she plan to do about her own little ones, when they decide they would rather not marry straight out of school? Will she tell William that his own child has one year to live, and laugh then? Tell me!”_

 

_Gabrielle sobbed harder. “Jacques,” hissed Apolline, “You knew what I was when I courted you upon my nineteenth birthday.”_

 

_He sighed. “I know, love. I’m sorry, Gabby, I did not mean it like that.”_

 

_Gabrielle pulled away from her mother, and took the proffered handkerchief. “I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Of course we will go and support the Weasleys. Molly is their heart.”_

 

Her parents had looked upset, but relieved. They loved their son-in-law and grandchildren. Jacques enjoyed Arthur’s irreverent humor; Appolline adored Molly for her cheerful bustle and blunt attitude. The three Delacours had immediately packed up and moved into a cottage in St Ottery St. Catchpole, which they had lent to the rest of the Weasley siblings and relations for the duration of the funeral. Even knowing that she wouldn’t see the wilds of Africa, or even perhaps the castles of Japan, Gabrielle couldn’t regret the warm nights she’d spent in the Burrow, laughing with her family and the Weasleys. What was a teenager’s life worth in comparison to that of a mother and grandmother like Molly Weasley? If she died one year from now, at least the Weasleys would gather by her graveside and celebrate the little Veela with whom they’d played board games, swam in the pond out back, built snowmen, and decorated Easter eggs. If she’d chosen to run away, not even her sister would have decorated her grave with flowers. Gabrielle Delacour was no coward; at heart, she knew she was a Weasley.

* * *

 

 Arthur Weasley opened the back door of his dim, dusty home and stomped in the kitchen. He yanked his mourning robes off and left them laying there on the floor; tomorrow he was going to burn them—and then perhaps turn Hermione into a beaver, complete with those teeth she’d been so sensitive over as a child. She’d somehow found the robes in his great uncle’s trunk in the attic and bullied him into wearing them, at least for the funeral. The ghoul hadn’t even tried to stop her, that bastard. Well, he’d get his when Arthur turned this damn house over to the estate agents. He was under no illusions about how Ginevra, Ron, and Hermione would take that news. He wouldn’t live here alone, though, and his children had no business dwelling with the ghosts of their childhood, or the specter of their mother’s incredibly fast decline. But that was all tomorrow.

 

Tonight, he was going to pull on his lime green and florescent pink Weird Sisters T-shirt that Molly had bought him at the last concert she’d dragged him to. Tonight, he going to dance around this home he’s shared with his wife for nearly forty years, and sing at the top of his voice along with Celestina Warbeck. Tonight, he was going to shake his booty in the jeans Molly always threatened to throw out (right after she tore them off his body and they had made sweet, sweet love on the kitchen table). Tonight, he was going to eat a nice hot curry (Molly hated the smell of curry and wouldn’t have it in her kitchen), drink some of Xeno’s homemade elderberry wine (the only thing their wives had ever agreed on was that their husbands would die someday from sampling it) and scrub the kitchen from top to bottom. Tomorrow, after all, the Weasley children would be over for one last luncheon in this old Burrow. Might as well make it a good memory.

 

Around the time Arthur had begun to eat his curry, George, Harry, and Charlie had managed to escape to the hotel bar back at the Bovey Castle. Teddy was having a sleep over with Bill and Fleur, because Fleur thought Victoire needed a distraction. Bill had offered to hang out with the children while Fleur had dessert and coffee with her family. The other three men had made their excuses, gone downstairs, and ensconced themselves in a tall backed leather booth with stupidly expensive scotch. (Harry, again, liked to order the most expensive thing on the menu, although Hermione often said Harry couldn’t tell the difference between forty year scotch and Mr. Lovegood’s bathtub gin.)

 

“Okay, Charlie, give,” demanded George.

 

“Give what?” Asked Charlie, his eyes wide with innocence.

 

“You know what!”

 

“Give a damn?

 

“No!”

 

“Give a rat’s arse? Sorry, no rat’s arses in sight, this is far too swanky of a joint for both rats and Weasleys.”

 

“Charles!”

 

“Give ya a blow job? I wouldn’t want to make the Man Who Conquered jealous.” Charlie fluttered his eyelashes at Harry.

 

Harry smirked at him and said, “I wouldn’t mind if I could watch, darling.”

 

Charlie snorted. “Doll, only if you planned to let me have your delectable arse afterwards, because y’know Georgie is far too selfish to return the favor.”

 

George once again despaired over how this was his life. Who knew ickle Harry Potter would grow up to be this terrible person, with terrible ideas, who got on so terribly well with his terrible, horrible, all too oblivious brother? He slapped the table hard. “Charlie! What was Apolline lying about in the auto? Why’ve they been so distracted?”

 

All humor fled from Charlie’s face. “How much do you know about Veela, Georgie?”

 

George shrugged. “Super hot, fire flinging birds, have some kinda destined mate schtick going on.”

 

Charlie snorted. “You sound like Ron, dumbass.”

 

“Fine. Tell us what you know, bitch.”

 

“Jerk. Look, Veelas aren’t exactly native to the Isles, so I get why you two monolinguistic knuckleheads wouldn’t know. I’ve got no fucking clue why Billy wouldn’t know; the Delacours either think Bill is a prejudiced git, or it doesn’t effect one-eighth bloods. I hope it’s the latter.”

 

“Bastard. Just spit it out.”

 

“Please, Charlie,” pleaded Harry, his eyes overly large and shining.

 

“Where the hell did you pick that trick up?” Asked Charlie, horrified. “As if you weren’t already ridiculously adorable, Harry!”

 

“Normally, prat, I’d pursue that _very_ interesting observation, but—I—just—want—to—know—what—you’re—on—about!” George kicked his brother under the table with each word.

 

“Ow! OK! Look, I’m good friends with a family of Veela in Romania. When Veela chicks turn 19, they imprint, kinda, on someone close to them. They have a year to court that person, and if they don’t win them over, they die.”

 

Both men stared at him, dumbfounded.

 

“Fleur didn’t,” protested Harry.

 

“Yeah, ‘cause Fleur went all hot and heavy after Billy, didn’t she, when she was eighteen. They hand fasted before she even really met Mum, Harry. That was Billy’s ace in the hole—if Mum hadn’t come ‘round, Bill was just going to pack Fleur up and move to Paris or Romania.”

 

“Why hasn’t Gabby said anything?” George looked horrified. “Do y’think that’s what they were doing in Africa right before they came back? Finding Gabby a nice boy?”

 

“Why do that in Africa?” Harry asked dubiously. “Why not here, where we all know people we could set her up with?”

 

“I asked my buddies about that,” said Charlie. “My colleague said Gabby might have been afraid of reminding my family that her sister wasn’t quite human—Britain is less than welcoming to nonhumans—but when I got mad at that, his wife said that some Veela _chose_ to die, because either their magic latched onto someone who was repulsed by the idea, or because they didn’t want to get married period. Gabby loves to travel, and my buddies thought she was just trying to see the world before she went up in flames, and her parents just wanted to make her happy.”

 

“So why’d she come back?” George thumped the table. “If she’d told us what was going on, we would’ve gone with her. Mum wasn’t selfish; Mum would have loved to see Africa, and share her last year with Gabs.”

 

Harry looked like he wanted to throw up. “She came back because she thought she was worth less than Molly Weasley. To us, I mean.”

 

“She’s not!” Snapped George. “It’s not a contest! They’re both Weasleys, aren’t they?”

 

“We know it’s not. Our parents know it’s not. If Billy doesn’t know, I’m feeding his ass to Norbert.” Charlie said mused, his eyes narrow. “But does Gabby? Her parents? Even Fleur? They saw how much emphasis the younger kids put on Mum living out her days in the Burrow, Georgie. That’s why they spent so much time there, those last couple of months. Mum felt real bad about it, she’d wanted to go to Venice with Dad, y’know, but she didn’t want the Delacours to feel snubbed.”

 

“Molly and Arthur wanted to go to Venice?” Asked Harry, surprised. “Why didn’t you say something, George? I’d’ve bought them a fucking palace, right on the Grand Canal!”

 

George sighed. “If I had, I would have been the bad guy. I like the Delacours too, and I didn’t want to make Ginny, Ron, and Hermione even more upset, ‘cause that would have upset Mum. But yeah, they honeymooned in Venice, Harry. Billy gets his love of history from Dad, and Ron gets his love of food from Mum. She loved Italian, especially Venetian seafood.”

 

“So,” said Charlie, “Tomorrow, Gabby will wake up and find herself burning for someone. Maybe one of us. What are we going to do about it?”

 

“Make sure the prat properly appreciates our girl,” said George with narrow eyes. “Or else."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
